


crime scene cutouts

by simplyclockwork



Series: Tumblr Inspired/Prompted Sherlock Fics - Part One [14]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, POV John Watson, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:27:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21645208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: Prompted by @bilbon-socket on Tumblr using these numbered prompts from a tumblr drabble prompt list:14: I made a mistake24: I’m not okay31: Can I kiss you?51: I can’t breathe64: Yell, scream, cry, please, just say something, anything
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Tumblr Inspired/Prompted Sherlock Fics - Part One [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1528859
Comments: 10
Kudos: 93





	crime scene cutouts

After Sherinford, there’s a stiffness to their routine, a missing piece to the ease of their camaraderie that wasn’t present before. 221B returns to its former glory, and John finds himself once more frequenting the flat for cases. Things are a little different—stretched tight like something about to snap—and he’s not sure how to address the change.

When a case takes them into the streets of London, dragging them through the city’s criminal underbelly, John finds himself hoping for a return to normalcy. Or the closest he and Sherlock get to normalcy. But the moment a light-haired man pulls a gun on Sherlock, spraying bullets through the cold November air, John’s breath catches in his throat, and his heart grinds to a stop within his chest.

Blood on white skin and the collapse of long legs to the pavement as the suspect escapes from sight.

John lunges after Sherlock, catches him under the arms, and sucks in hard air as the detective tumbles back against his chest. John slumps to his knees with Sherlock’s head pressing into his stomach, and desperately tears open the heavy Belstaff coat to assess the damage. From the wheezing in Sherlock’s breathing, he suspects a collapsed lung and feels the diagnosis is confirmed when he realizes a bullet has slammed into Sherlock’s collar bone.

Pulling out his phone, he dials for an ambulance, barks their location into the mobile and shoves it back into his pocket. “Sherlock,” he calls, finding the other man’s eyes closed in his pale face. “Sherlock!” He shakes him, gentle but desperate. “Dammit, Sherlock! Yell, scream, cry, please, just say something, _anything.”_

Sherlock’s eyes flutter open, dark grey-blue dominating his prism irises, and he coughs until blood stains his bottom lip. “John,” the voice is raspy, a wheezing sound punctuating the words. “I made a mistake,” he says this with a wry tone, an unexpected look of surprise on his face. John stares at him, aghast and shocked, and entirely, horribly amused.

John snorts, panic still rippling in his chest but quieting at the sound of Sherlock’s voice. “Think so?”

Sherlock is shaking his head, the rattling in his throat more pronounced. “I can’t breathe, John.”

“Yes, you can, Sherlock.” John smooths comforting hands over Sherlock’s arms; pulls gentle fingers through sweat-damp hair. “You have a collapsed lung. I know it feels like you can’t, but you can, so don’t stop.”

Sherlock nods, winces, and presses a hand to his chest, his face white and his hand red. As John continues to card his fingers through Sherlock’s curls, the detective’s eyes close. He rests against John’s chest, breath rattling in his mouth, and pulls in slow, jagged gasps. When his eyes flash open, his head tilts back, and he blinks rapidly into John’s face. “John?” he asks, and there’s a strange vulnerability in his voice that catches John’s attention almost immediately. “I’m not okay.”

John jolts; locks his hands on Sherlock’s arms. “You will be, Sherlock, just hang on.” Distantly, he can hear the wail of sirens and heaves out a sigh of relief. “They’re coming, Sherlock. Okay? They’re coming.”

Sherlock’s eyes are unfocused, and he looks undone as he raises trembling fingers, wiping blood from his chin. “John?” His name again, spoken with hesitation.

John looks down; finds himself pinned with light eyes. “Yes, Sherlock?” he replies in a voice softened in the intensity of the detective’s stare.

“Can I kiss you?”

The question is unexpected—strange and life-changing, and John doesn’t question, answers with the first thing his mind offers, “Yes.”

Because Sherlock asks him, because they don’t do this, but Sherlock is laying against his chest with a bullet in his body, and the sirens can’t seem to get to them fast enough. So he shifts, tilts his head and brings his lips to Sherlock’s. John tastes blood and fear and something sharp, and everything falls into place. The stiffness of the past months drops away as Sherlock’s stuttering breath puffs into his mouth and Sherlock’s tongue drifts along his top lip.

The ambulance pulls up behind them, with police cruisers close behind. Blue and red lights wash over them, and Sherlock’s lips are warm against John’s.


End file.
